We'll Hide Our Shadows In The Dark
by Drinking Again
Summary: After Lucien is exiled from the Autumn Court, it is Rhysand, not Tamlin, who takes him in; Not as a courtier, but as a political prisoner, to show just how much power he has against even the nobility. He is to destroy him in the spotlight of the public eye, to prove once and for all his omnipotence. What he doesn't expect is to find Lucien so eager to be destroyed.
1. apéritif

Blood salts his split lip. Lucien winces, but does not pull away, as Rhys presses the pad of his thumb to that raw sore spot, circles, and pushes . Dying skin rips, widening the wound. Fresh blood oozes out, seeping between both their flesh.

Rhys gazes at what he has done, plying the gash with a detached kind of curiosity, before he takes his crimson-coated thumb and slicks it down across his prisoner's tongue, smearing blood all the way to the back of his throat.

Like a dog, Lucien takes it. Licks his new 'master's thumb. Sucks away the salt, the heat, ignoring how it sickens him. His mind, which has not been silent since he watched her - still he cannot think her name without being overwhelmed with rage - finally quiets and focuses solely on his silent task. On obeying. On fighting back. On submitting. On becoming something more than himself.

Sensing that Lucien is enjoying it too much, Rhys catches his jaw. He squeezes it hard, contorting his skin to burst his bust lip further. He forces his gaze up to meet his. "This isn't about love, Red." Lucien did not for a moment think it was. But then perhaps Rhys is not saying these words for him. He leans in closer, clenches him tighter, grinds the wound deeper. "It's about power ."


	2. entrée

Many things have happened that Lucien does not wish to dwell on. Yet dwell he does.

He has watched his lover be executed on the stone tiles before him. Been beaten within an inch of his life by his own brothers, his own servants . Gone a week without food, with mere dribbles of water to keep him half-sane. Physically, he aches, but psychologically, he has been gouged from his chest cavity out. He does not know what or who he is anymore, only that he has become numb with internal hurt; He even misses the strike of flesh on flesh for how it distracted from the piercing force of his own thoughts. Fantasises about his brothers coming back to finish off the job. Coming back to save him from feeling at all.

And perhaps that is why he is almost… relieved when the only one who agrees to salvage him from his exile is the High Lord of The Night Court, a man notorious for his cruelty. Perhaps if he is as idiotic as Lucien has found high lords to be, he will think it ruthless to kill him; A notion Lucien finds bemusedly, but deeply, erotic.

When they meet, Lucien gagged and bound and kneeling, the High Lord enthroned in a court of nightmares, he truly believes this will finally all be over. Rhys is thick and shadow-swept and his gaze like the blackest ice. His body, lounging as a hunting cat suns itself upon the throne, is full of grace and two-second murders. The power that thrums through the entire court whispers on shadowy winds promises of death to any who dare question him.

Thus Lucien is elated when the gag is removed, and his new High Lord approaches. He is soliloquising to the gathered audience and the arrogance of him is almost palpable, but all Lucien tunes into is the end, for he is too busy estimating how hard those muscular arms can hit. "So let all the Courts witness how the Night can subdue and break all of the elements. Even fire."

Tensions between the solar courts and the elemental courts have been strained of late at best, on the brink of mutiny against the treaty in all honesty. Lucien remembers with dull amusement how he used to feverishly stay up till dawn and later studying such things, scavenging scraps of propaganda from all Courts to try and work out how he, a meaningless seventh son, could help. He'd just wanted to keep his people - to keep her- safe.

A hand grips his jaw, and Rhysand tilts his face up to the faelight shining overhead. "Azriel, don't tell me you've brought me an already broken pony."

"He nearly burned three of his brothers to death, my lord. Succeeded with his father's brother, the war hero General Mathis."

"No pony then," Rhysand muses, studying the bloodied, beaten profile before him with a smirk. "A veritable stallion."

With perfect timing, Lucien spits in his face. "I'll do the same to you before I let some bastard monstrosity touch me." Anger flashes across that beautiful dark face, and Lucien feels his cock twitch in his breaches because it is an expression that promises such destruction. "I will never bow before an abomination like you."

The Illyrian, Azriel, makes a start to strike him, but Rhysand holds up his hands. He is smiling with more frost than all of the Winter Court. "I'm glad you said that," he says, softly, yet the silent room hears it clearly. "It will make it all the more satisfying when you beg forgiveness before this very court. Before every court. My travelling pony show."

"Fuck you."

Rhysand slaps him. A taste of what is to come. It is all Lucien can do to stop from leaning into it, to bite back on the plea for more . "We'll fix that vulgar tongue of yours." He looks up to Azriel. "Have him brought to my chambers tonight." Straightening, he turns his back on Lucien, leaving him aching and untouched and oh so desperate for that hand to sting him deeper, harder. "Anyone who shares this brat's opinions will get the same treatment. And I'll make sure every Court knows that."

Lucien is escorted by two dark skinned women shrouded by shadows into the chambers promised to him. Rhysand, still dressed in his black court finery, is reclining upon the bed, sipping wine and reading a book propped up on his thighs. As if he weren't about to beat a man. As if it was just a normal Tuesday night.

"That will be all," Rhys says without looking up, licking his fingertips to turn a page. The twins bow and vanish into the darkness just like that. Just what kind of a place Lucien has found himself in, he is not sure, but it promises silently the kind of relief he craves. His main protest is that the High Lord lounges on the bed whilst he kneels on the floor, not even coming close to striking him.

"Now, pony," Rhys says without looking up. "I have no intention of hurting you, and I apologise for the demonstration that was necessary today. This can be easy for the both of us." Finally, he meets his eyes, if only for a second. His are softer now, the frost thawed. Almost warm, sympathetic. It makes Lucien want to be sick.

"You will be housed, clothed, and fed. You will have the freedom to make use of my quarters at your leisure, and when I return to my home, you will accompany me. I shall employ you as one of my courtiers, eventually publicly. But for now, you shall travel with me as my newly submissive servant who will demonstrate to my enemies how I can break even the slayer of War Lords. Do you have any questions?"

Lucien should have known that the cold, the theatrical villainy, had been nothing but an act. It had all been too good to be true. And now here his demon sits, being all kinds of monstrous things, like reasonable and kind . He feels like the butt of a joke played upon him by the universe.

He is silent for a long while. Rhysand does not watch him, but rather continues his studious reading. "No questions. But a condition." This makes the High Lord look up, raising his eyebrows in disbelief at the cheek of his new prisoner.

"Yes?" He prompts in a drawling tone. Lucien meets that gaze, holds it, doesn't even swallow. He wants someone to understand, and what does he have to lose?

"I want you to do as you said. I want you to break me."

Silence again, but instead of waiting for his answer, Lucien is possessed by sudden passion, because he has been untouched for too long and the thoughts in his skull are starting to fester. "I will not preen over you, nor worship the ground you walk on, nor treat you as my master until youmake me."

"I don't- we don't need to do any of that. I'm saying we can just pretend that all happened. All that's required is a little acting on your behalf." Rhysand, mightest High Lord in all of history, is frowning like a confused school child.

"I don't want to act. I spent years acting, and look where it got me. I want-" He is choking on his own words, but the humiliation will be worth it if he gets what he needs. "I want you to break me, until every part of me is consumed and controlled by your touch. I want you to beat the feelings out of me." He swallows, composing himself. "Else I'll tell everyone how behind closed doors, you're really just a pussy."

Speechless, Rhysand swallows. His prominent cheeks are flushed, his fingers twitch. "You-"

"Break me, lordling," Lucien snaps, all teeth and trying to obscure the fact that he is begging . "Or is all that power just for show?"

The book snaps shut. Rhysand slides from the bed, discards his reading, and crosses the room to tower over him, looking down at his pain-stricken features. Lips part to speak, but he swallows whatever half-formed sentence he'd prepared. Stretching out, he ghosts his fingertips across the cuts and bruises of Lucien's skin. "Have you not had enough?" He asks, in little more than a whisper.

"I have had more than enough, of everyone. Especially myself." Lucien would cry from how nauseating is own self-pity is, but he's too tired. He's so, so tired. "I just want a break. From thinking."

Hesitating, Rhysand studies him. Subconsciously, his fingers find the sore spots on Lucien's skin, noticing his wincing and then prodding further. He swallows, and now up close, Lucien is certain he is flushing. Darkening. Contemplating.

Fantasising.

"Stop holding back, Lordling," Lucien purrs, going on the offensive, hunting. If he must bringing his demon to him, so be it. "You clearly spend so long holding back. Pretending. Why not try letting all that darkness out?"

Rhysand, of all things, laughs. "Cassian warned me you were charming. He met you once, at a bar of all places. Said you were surprisingly disarming for nobility. Which, to be fair, I think was a dig at me rather than you." He takes a hold of the other's jaw, and leans in, locking gazes. "You've won me over. I accept your condition."

All at once, Lucien's heart both soars and sinks. He has knocked upon the door to the abyss and wedged it open. "Well then," he says, examining those dark eyes. " Break me ."


End file.
